Vixen (16 page)

“They couldn’t have,” Gloria interrupted, redness creeping up her neck like ivy, “seeing as they are in Mexico.”

“—when I spoke to them earlier this evening to wish them success at the museum gala.”

“Ah,” Marcus said. “They must have come home early! I’m always the last to know these things.”

“They must have,” Mrs. Carmody finished. “Gloria, please go up to your room. You and I shall speak more about this later.”

“Yes, Mother,” Gloria said. She disappeared down the hall.

Clara should have given her cousin a tutorial in the art of lying. Rule Number 1: Keep it simple. Rule Number 2: Never explain. Rule Number 3: Don’t involve any other party unless he is complicit in your lie.

But Gloria’s punishment became Clara’s opportunity. Since then, she had filled in for Gloria at almost every social engagement. Everyone seemed to like Country Clara.

Clara put down her book, a borrowed copy of
This Side of Paradise
, and decided to compose a letter to her roommates back in New York. But she realized she had no “You’ll never believe who I’m stuck on” or “I got spifflicated!” stories to report. What was she going to say? “Dear girls, guess what? Aunt Beatrice taught me how to knit today. We made the most delightful tea cozy.” She could always razz on Gloria, but Clara wasn’t the sort to kick a dog when it was down.

Just as Clara was seriously considering the variety of activities that might be offered to girls at the Illinois Girls’ School of Reform (jewelry making? glassblowing? lock picking?), the doorbell rang. The butler would doubtless answer it—what was his name, again?—but it seemed as good a reason as any to leave her room and go downstairs.

Clara glided down the staircase, one hand on its broad white banister, and into the foyer.

It was as quiet and empty as that Lorraine girl’s head.

Nothing except the gilded pictures that lined the walls and the mahogany table where Aunt Bea left her house keys and a tiny bronze dish full of mints. Where was everyone? Clara opened the front door and, much to her surprise, found Marcus waiting on the porch. He looked perfectly spiffy. He was dressed in a tailored gray flannel suit with a baby blue shirt
beneath that picked up the color of his eyes, and atop his head was a soft gray derby. And his fly was undone.

Clara averted her eyes, focusing on the floor.

“Isn’t the wood nice?” she asked. “I always love a good wooden floor.”

Marcus looked at her curiously. “You’ve been inside too much,” he said, striding into the foyer and taking off his hat. “Pretty girls aren’t supposed to look down. Only up.”

“Your”—she made vague fluttering motions near her waist.

Marcus looked down, then turned and buttoned up. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m afraid I got dressed in a blazing hurry, I was so excited about this evening.”

“Oh, what’s happening this evening?”

“We’re going out,” he said. “Put on your finest finery—no finery is too fine for tonight.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Clara said, not wanting to seem like all the other girls who hung on his every word. Though it wasn’t such an easy task in his presence. One lock of wavy blond hair fell over his left eye—she was tempted to brush it back, to touch his skin with the tips of her fingers. But she had to resist. “You know that Gloria is still grounded,” she reminded him.

“And why is Gloria grounded? Because her tardiness was insulting to the debs of Chicago. And what do we do to remedy that?” he asked, circling around her.

“I’m confused,” Clara said.

“Marcus, there you are!” Mrs. Carmody swept into the foyer and gave Marcus’s cheek a loud smooch. She was wearing a tan dress that ended below her knees, and a simple yet elegant diamond necklace. Clara could see dark circles beneath her eyes. Aunt Bea looked worn out.

“How kind of you to offer yourself up to the cause. I know Clara will be in excellent hands tonight.”

Clara looked quickly from one to the other. “Auntie, dear, I don’t under—”

“She’s been busy, you know,” Aunt Bea continued, ignoring her. “Quickly becoming the talk of the town.” She turned to Clara and smiled. Could this really be the same aunt who’d sat her down and threatened to send her off to reform school?

“I’m sorry, am I missing something?” Clara asked.

“Why, dear, Marcus has been so kind as to offer you accompaniment to Virginia Bitman’s evening tea party. Isn’t that considerate of him?” Mrs. Carmody clapped her hands together. Clara couldn’t tell what, exactly, she was so excited about, but at least Aunt Bea was being nice to her.

“That
is
very considerate of him,” Clara said, confused by the wicked gleam in his eye. It was not the sort of gleam usually inspired by a high tea given by someone like Ginnie Bitman.

“And since those girls took such a liking to you, Clara, perhaps you can help mend the bridges that my daughter burned? If you know what I mean.”

So
that
was the reason for this whole setup. Nothing was more important to her aunt than crossing social bridges and climbing social ladders.

Clara hadn’t particularly wanted to go to this wretched little tea party—she’d had her fill of Ginnie’s fluffy conversation and gluey pastries on Tuesday. And whose idea had it been to have Mr. Playboy accompany her? He couldn’t really want to be stuck with the debutantes on a Friday night, could he?

But whatever the reason, it was an excuse to get out of this stifling house. Grateful for that, Clara asked no more questions, but ran upstairs to put on her finest social-bridge-mending outfit.

“So, admit it: How much do you love me?” Marcus asked.

Clara put her fingers together with about a millimeter of space between them. “This much?”

They were standing in line for movie tickets at the Biograph Theater on North Lincoln. The marquee overhead blinked
Our Hospitality
in fire-engine red—it was a sneak preview of the newest Buster Keaton movie.

Marcus had revealed on the way to Ginnie’s that he’d
never intended to stay long at the tea party. “I’d sooner set myself on fire,” he said while Clara laughed.

Clara had been happy and impressed when he’d outlined the plan—“After twenty minutes,” he told her, “you will fall ill because of something you ate. Go to the bathroom, rub a bit of concealer on your face, and dampen your hairline. Come back and wobble a bit—hold on to the edge of a table while you place a palm to your head. And then call to me and I’ll take care of the rest.”

He’d been as good as his word, insisting to Ginnie and her group that the best thing for Clara was to take her home right away. A few moments later, they were in his car, and a few moments after that, here in line at the Biograph.

“Only that much? Come on, give a fella a chance.”

She separated her fingers about an inch. This was fun. She looked good, and she knew it, and she knew
he
thought she looked good. She was wearing sheer stockings, an emerald-green skirt, and a pale pink cotton sweater that felt fine against her skin. “Is that better?”

“Come on, say it. This is a
far
better evening.”

“Hmmmm, Ginnie Bitman versus Buster Keaton. Tough call.”

“How can you possibly compare Ginnie Bitman to Buster Keaton?”

“Well, they both
are
kind of clownish.”

“Except Ginnie wears less makeup, yet somehow manages to look more like a man.”

Clara shook her head in mock disapproval. “That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to say.”

“If you want a gentleman, go back to the tea party.” Marcus looked at his watch. “There’s still time before Freddy Barnes and my friends go to see the vaudeville at the Salty Dachshund. I’ll do that; you run along to your tea.” He made a shooing gesture with his fingers.

“No, thanks. I think I’d rather be stuck with a cake-eater than stuck eating cake.”

“Are you calling me a ladies’ man, Miss Knowles?” He turned from her and stepped up to the box office. His eyes were bright, a perfect combination of little-boy eagerness and more mature masculine appeal. God, he was sexy.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Eastman.”

Clara was secretly thrilled that Marcus had come up with this ingenious scheme for the night, even though she was suspicious of his motives. She knew boys like him in New York. The dangerous combination of being born both wealthy and good-looking meant they never had to work for anything—girls were as disposable to them as the wads of cash in their wallet. They were all about the chase.

Clara had dated some of the most notorious ones.

There was Leo Silverman, the Jewish millionaire, who used to have her join him on his yacht in the Hamptons. There was Shawn Carroll, the banker and arts patron, who always let Clara use his box at the Metropolitan Opera, whether he accompanied her or not. And then there was
Thierry Marceau, the French heir, with his imported-cashmere empire, who filled her closets. And there were others she’d dated briefly.

Dated
was a loose term. Mostly, she could only go to one premiere or gallery opening with a man before he started expecting something in return. Her rule with these men was: socializing only, nothing more.

But Clara had thrown the rules out the window when she’d fallen in love.

That was then and this was now, she reminded herself. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She’d been broken and bruised, but she’d learned from her mistakes. And Marcus certainly wasn’t going to threaten her newly minted willpower.

Until they got inside the theater.

They surveyed the seats, which were filling up quickly. She spotted two close to the screen. “How ’bout there?” she suggested.

Marcus scoffed. He pulled her toward the back of the theater and up the staircase into the balcony.

He sat her down in a shadowy corner. “Now, you stay right there. And don’t you dare give away my seat to some other boy while I’m gone. Even if he is handsomer than me.”

Clara was left alone, grinning like a fool. What was wrong with her? Off the bat, she should never have agreed to sit in the balcony: Everybody knew the only reason it existed was so couples could neck. She glanced around her. Yep, movie
houses in Chicago were no different than New York—one big petting pantry. There were couples everywhere. In front of her, a man’s arm was snugly wrapped around his date’s shoulder, ready to pull her closer as soon as the lights were low. That was
not
going to happen to her.

But would kissing Marcus be such a crime? He certainly had the most kissable mouth she had ever seen, that pouty bottom lip just asking to be bitten.

The lights dimmed and the piano player began pounding out a jaunty rag—probably the theme for the movie. Marcus still wasn’t back. Clara closed her eyes, as she always did at the beginning of films and plays, letting the darkness spread over her, welcoming her into a different universe.

“Are you that bored already?”

Clara opened her eyes, adjusting them to the now pitch-black cinema. A beam of light from the projector cut the darkness as the movie began.

Marcus was sliding into the seat next to her with an enormous sack of buttery popcorn. “I figure a movie is only as good as the snacks.” He leaned in close to her and whispered in her ear, “Give me your hands.”

Light and shadow played on his face. Clara wished she had a camera to capture the way he looked—right here, right now—forever. “Why?”

“You still don’t trust me?” He reached over and filled her hands with a bunch of slick little pyramids.

Clara looked down at her cupped hands: Hershey’s Kisses.

“Popcorn and chocolate together are the best combination. A little sweetness, a little saltiness.”

“Shhhh!” Clara pointed to the screen. “It’s starting.”

Buster Keaton’s familiar edge-of-panic features filled the screen. He played a character named Willie McKay, who—not unlike Clara herself—had been sent to live with his aunt. Ironically, though, Buster was sent
to
New York. Before long, Clara found herself laughing harder than she had in weeks.

Even though the film was totally ducky, Clara had a hard time concentrating with Marcus beside her. Every time he laughed—an adorable, distinct “Ha! Ha! Ha!”—he would jolt forward, and his pants brushed her leg.

But every time Clara found herself leaning in toward him, by sheer force of his magnetic pull—making it easy for him to wrap an arm around her shoulder if he wanted to—Marcus sat up a little straighter and leaned the other way.

It was starting to make her a little crazy. Wasn’t that why he had dragged her up here? All the couples surrounding them were now full-on necking. She crossed her legs and rested her hand on the top of her knee so that it was exposed to him—

But he didn’t make a move.

On screen, a gunman was chasing Willie, and the two of them fell into a raging river and tumbled over a waterfall, and Clara was laughing and laughing on the outside, but on
the inside all she could think was: Had she gotten Marcus all wrong?

Did she think she was so much the cat’s meow that every guy she met had to fall in love with her? Marcus had a million other girls. What made her think she was so special? It was then that she realized: She
wanted
him to think she was special. He was funny and charming and a little bit full of himself, but in a good way. She wanted him to rub her knee, to pull her close. To kiss her.